The Skipper
“You’ve broken the world record twice over now,” I faintly hear in the background.
“Could I have been skipping for more than 66 hours?” I think.
The skin on my palms feel as though it has fused with the jump rope handle. I can no longer tell where my arms end and the rope begins.
My heart is pounding within my chest like a war drum, the cold sweat oozzing out from my head is stinging in my eyes and it makes everything go blurry, and a metallic taste lingers in the back of my mouth.
A current passes through my body, shoving aside any sliver of sleep each time the rope smacks the ground and I jump above it.
The space within the area of the rope has become a sort of haven — a cocoon, separating me from the rest of the world.
A perpetual feeling of insignificance ensnares my thoughts, reminding me that I have achieved nothing in life, biding time hiding in the mediocrity of the crowd.
The truth is that I don’t understand my purpose, nor do I know how to find it. It is in this conflict between the wants of my heart and that of my mind, of what it wants to experience and whom it wants to be, that is the eternal creator of chaos within me.
I try to console myself with the fact that I’m not the only one undergoing it: most of the world are suffering from it and eventually settle in life somewhere of compromise.
I am on the path to do the same, to settle in mediocrity with limited aspirations that could keep my ego at bay. Be just enough, do just enough, and get through life.
Something clicked within me when my friend challenged me to a skipping competition. The underlying tone of superiority when she claimed I could not beat her ticked off something deep within me.
What started out as a friendly jest was turning out to be a far more insidious battle which began raging within me.
It has been two days since I started — or a minute; I can’t tell anymore. Time is warped in my head.
What started as an ego-fuelled jest turned into escapism for me and high that I am getting from skipping is helping me keep myself distant from the chaos of my regular life. I’ve wanted to give up at each second right from the start, but this high is pushing me to keep going.
My mind drifts into the past, as distinct memories of the times I’ve given up flash before me — leaving the swimming race midway, quitting my music lessons, not pursuing a tougher course in college, not going through with an interview where I could stand a chance. I could have gone through with it all, but I didn’t push hard enough.
Since the beginning of this competition, rage has been my motivation, but I’ve released it. I’ve managed to make peace with it. Physical pain is the only reality I know. I am moving, I am breathing, and I am alive.
Closing my eyes, I draw in slower breaths from my mouth. My feet and calves feel like they are burning in a furnace. The tether between my body and soul, for the moment, has ceased to exist.
As I ascend the skies, floating up through the cold, damp clouds, I see the earth below become smaller with each passing second. A shrill silence engulfs me as I drift into space.
I grapple with a sudden sense of loneliness but within the next few minutes the warmth from the stars manage to whisk it away by reminding me of all beautiful moments I have experienced in my life.
Were fame and fortune my ultimate motivators? The voice in my head booms aloud in the space around me. Is it all I wanted?
As I question each belief I’ve harboured since childhood, I feel each layer of conditioning levied upon me by society, by parents and friends and by me being peeled off my very being. “Is this what death is?” — The voice booms.
The stitch in my belly is getting worse with each movement and the throbbing pain in my head feels unbearable. My arms and legs feel like wobbly pieces of rubber that could just come off any second.
But in that very moment — I get the taste of freedom.
Closing my eyes, ignoring the sharp sound of the rope slicing through air, I bask in the momentary glory of freedom, all dreams and desires seem meaningless. I could call this absolute freedom.
Suddenly, my physical pain crosses its threshold and I feel my body jerk forward. As I loose balance and fall on my face with the jump rope tangled around my feet the afterglow of what I had felt acts as a numbing agent for my physical pain.
Coming back to my senses, I look to my left and I see my friend still skipping and a few others giggling at me.
“You lost smart ass”, she shouted which made me smile.
“I did”, I replied, and lay back flat on the grass allowing my breath to settle down. For the first time I was happier at someone else’s victory than my own loss and the feeling of it in itself allowed me to feel like a winner.
